


When the Land Meets the Sea

by eyesofshinigami



Series: The Birthday Collective [12]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mentions of Geralt/Yennefer - Freeform, lots of feelings, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesofshinigami/pseuds/eyesofshinigami
Summary: It begins with a box. Nondescript, well-worn, made of a sturdy wood with a heavy lock on the front. It’s small enough that Geralt assumes it’s a box of coins, perhaps all the savings Jaskier has acquired or something to keep the precious jewels he sometimes adorns his hands with. The wood smells faintly of the sea, which Geralt chalks up to Jaskier being from Kerack and all.orthe one where Geralt misses Jaskier isn't human, but Jaskier loves him anyway
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Birthday Collective [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910632
Comments: 45
Kudos: 579





	When the Land Meets the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday gift for the lovely Steph, who fuels my creature!Jaskier headcanons and is an absolute delight to know. I hope you like it, lovely!
> 
> Also, I played around a little with the legend of the selkie a bit, because my research kept giving me conflicting ideas. And what's a little 'throw it all in a blender and see what happens', amirite?

It begins with a box. Nondescript, well-worn, made of a sturdy wood with a heavy lock on the front. It’s small enough that Geralt assumes it’s a box of coins, perhaps all the savings Jaskier has acquired or something to keep the precious jewels he sometimes adorns his hands with. The wood smells faintly of the sea, which Geralt chalks up to Jaskier being from Kerack and all. 

The first time he notices it, Jaskier is shoving it into one of Roach’s saddlebags, not having an easy time of it at all. It’s bulkier than he’d like to carry, and he growls out, “What the fuck is that? We don’t have the room to carry something that heavy.” As the words fall from his lips, his nose twitches when he scents Jaskier’s anxiety on the air. The bard is looking at him with wide, wet eyes and there’s almost a tremble making its way through his muscles.

“Oh, well. I...you see, I can’t really leave it behind, it’s quite valuable and it’s...well--” he stammers through his explanation, which is odd in of itself. Jaskier is a master wordsmith, or so he claims when he touts his Oxenfurt education and talks endlessly of the ballads and poems he’s written. The fact that he falters now makes Geralt’s hackles raise just a bit. “If you could lend me a satchel, perhaps, I’ll carry it myself.” 

Geralt tosses him a spare sack, watching as he squirrels the box away and throws it over his shoulder. He shouldn’t care, it’s no business of his one way or another the foolish trinkets the bard wants to cart around, but it’s the way Jaskier keeps it clutched close that gives him pause. He holds it like both a treasure and a burden, something to be guarded and kept close by.

Like a brooch upon a sword hilt. 

He growls beneath his breath and climbs onto Roach, digging his heels in and setting her off into a trot that has Jaskier flailing to catch up. It’s mean, he knows, but the situation has him feeling off-kilter and that makes him want to curl up and hide his soft parts away from the world, away from _Jaskier_. The bard doesn’t seem to notice, keeping a jaunty pace beside him as he chatters on like nothing happened. Eventually, the wounded feeling starts to fade away and Geralt slows, tuning in to actually listen to whatever Jaskier has been telling him the last mile or so. It’s...nice, he can admit, and he lets the thought of the pretty carved box in Jaskier’s sack drift out of his mind for the time being.

\--

He thinks of it again when they get caught out by bandits while they’re camping in the woods. Geralt takes a nasty hit to the head with a mace and nearly loses consciousness, which is the only reason he thinks he sees Jaskier swinging and hissing at the men who are trying to rob them blind. It must be the head wound when he swears that Jaskier’s voice begins to sound like churning waves and whistling wind, like the herald of a hurricane on the sea. 

Eventually, he manages to get to his feet, blood running in his eyes as he grabs his sword and swings, beheading the man who is trying to steal Jaskier’s sack from him. Only then does he notice the bloodied knife at his feet, along with the body of a man slumped off to the side. He spares a moment to think about it before he swings again, the ground soaked with blood as the bandits fall one by one. When it’s done, he slumps down into the only clean patch of dirt and sways a bit, Jaskier by his side in a flash.

“Tell me what you need,” the bard asks, that strange, haunting quality still in his voice. Geralt tastes salt and brine in his mouth, but he tells himself it’s only the taste and smell of his own blood. 

“My satchel. It’s got my potions in it. The waterskin and a cloth as well,” he rattles off as he tries to take deep, even breaths to stave off his head from spinning. The wound will heal, he knows, but the dizzy-sick feeling that always comes with a blow to the head is awful. Jaskier appears again with the requested items, using the water and the cloth to clean Geralt’s face as he roots around for the right potion bottle. A dose of Swallow should get rid of the worst of it, and then he can start clearing away the bodies. Jaskier’s dabbing the cloth against his face when he remembers what he saw. “You were pretty handy with that dagger, bard.”

Jaskier’s cheeks pink up a little and he doesn’t look at Geralt as he continues swiping away the blood. “I did travel alone before I met you, Witcher. Figured I should pick up some skill in how to defend myself. Besides, that hit to the head of yours had me worried, witcher strength or not. I didn’t want those ruffians to rob us blind.” He sets the cloth aside and leans up to inspect the wound, and Geralt is treated to the sight of his muscles flexing beneath his doublet. His scent is strong this close, deep and earthy with a faint trace of sea-salt that makes him want to lean closer. It reminds Geralt of the cliffs in Skellige when the sun shines on them, after the winter snows have melted. “It doesn’t appear you’ll need stitches. I think you’ll have a pretty nasty headache for a while, though.”

“That’s what the potion is for,” Geralt replies, glancing to the side. Jaskier’s sack is within reach, wrapped tightly and flecked with the blood of the bandit that the bard had stabbed. “You could have just given it to him. You didn’t have to fight.” 

There’s a beat of silence and Jaskier’s face twists into an expression Geralt has never seen on him before. It’s a mix of rage and desperation, accompanied by a hot spike in his scent that almost makes Geralt move back a little. “Absolutely not. Would you have given him your swords, your medallion? I’d sooner give him my lute than this.” He grabs the sack and clutches it tightly in his hand, moving away and sitting hard on the ground. 

An apology rests on the tip of Geralt’s tongue, but instead he says, “I just don’t want to see you hurt over something trivial.” It twists his gut and he looks away, unsure of the feeling curling in his stomach as he speaks. 

Jaskier lets out a huff and Geralt hears the rustling of cloth, the creak of wood in his hands. “It’s not, though. I promise you that much. Perhaps one day I’ll show you, but… today is not that day. Soon, though. Now, how about we clean up camp and get some dinner sorted, what do you say?” 

Geralt nods and gets to his feet, swaying a bit from the blow to the head. Thankfully, Jaskier is there to catch him and rights him, helping him towards the log he’d been sitting on before the bandits had attacked. Jaskier flits about the space like a nervous bird, twittering all the while about ruffians and their lack of manners, and Geralt is charmed enough that he forgets about the strange driftwood box that’s sitting nearby. 

\--

Then Rinde happens, and Geralt doesn’t see the box make another appearance for a long, long time. Jaskier is still his plucky self for the most part, but Geralt doesn’t miss the way his eyes shadow when Yennefer appears, or the tidal rush of brine that rises in his scent when Geralt disappears with her. He ignores it, not sure what to make it and lulled in by the scent of violets and gooseberries. 

He likes Yennefer, likes the way she feels beneath his hands and the way she tastes under his tongue. He thinks that they might have loved each other even without the help of his wish, but he’ll never know for sure. But, deep down, he knows that Yennefer hungers for something more, wants more than he would ever be able to give her. It’s in those moments that he thinks of soft songs in the light of a campfire, or slick, gentle hands dancing over his skin in the heat of a warm bath. 

Geralt is not a selfish man, has been taught by life and experience that wanting something too hard is dangerous. Yet, he cannot deny how much he _wants_ when he thinks of both of them. 

He comes back from one such tryst to find Jaskier lounging in the bath, eyes closed and humming a sea shanty that Geralt hasn’t heard in decades. His medallion isn’t humming, but there’s a strange sensation building in his belly, like a hook in his abdomen that pulls him closer. He would call it a siren song, but Jaskier’s features never shift into anything but the soft, pale human face of him. “Oh, Geralt… I didn’t think you’d be back tonight.” He doesn’t move, and Geralt notices the way that the water shines on his skin, like he’s dappled with diamonds in the low candlelight.

It’s...strangely mesmerizing. If he hadn’t just spent the vast portion of the afternoon tumbling around with Yennefer, he knows that there would be heat building low in his belly. “You’re fine,” is all Geralt can manage. He distracts himself by taking off his armor and setting his swords aside, his skin prickling when Jaskier begins to hum again. “That song...where did you hear it?” 

Jaskier is washing now and Geralt does his best to keep his gaze on his boots. It isn’t the first time that he’s been drawn in by Jaskier’s beauty, or his voice, but tonight the pull feels that much stronger. Maybe it’s the moon high in the sky, or maybe it’s that Yennefer sent him away too soon, but all he wants is to press his face into the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder and drown in the sea-salt softness of his skin. “My mother taught it to me. It’s Keracki, you know. I know many come from Skellige, but this one is from my home. Have you heard it before?” 

“Not in a long time.” There’s a splash and Jaskier gets out of the tub, and it takes every single ounce of Geralt’s willpower not to steal a look. He hears the sound of footsteps and the rustle of cloth, and he risks a look over his shoulder. Jaskier’s standing near the window, wrapped in a bath sheet, but he looks… ethereal. 

“My mother used to sing it to me as a child. She sang it in her mother tongue, but I couldn’t be bothered to learn it.” Jaskier smiles sadly and glances over to where the driftwood box rests right beside his lute. “And my father wouldn’t let me. Said she lived in Kerack now, she didn’t need that nonsense.” 

Geralt wants to say something, anything that might banish the melancholy look on Jaskier’s face and chase away the sadness from his scent, the deep briney scent of it burning the inside of his nose. “You could sing it to me, if you wanted.” 

Jaskier lets out a sigh and dresses in his night clothes. And just like that, the spell is broken and Geralt feels like he can breathe properly for the first time since he walked into the room. “If you’d like,” Jaskier says as he grabs his lute and sits on the bed. He fiddles for a moment and then begins to play, singing words that Geralt doesn’t understand but still feels deep in his chest. It pulls him under like ocean tides and he loses himself in the sound of Jaskier’s voice rolling over him. 

He has no idea how long he sits there, listening and being lost in the words and the music. It’s not like Jaskier’s usual fare, haunting and deep and fathomless. It makes Geralt long for something he can’t name and his feet itch to walk until they reach the shore. It isn’t until the last note leaves Jaskier’s mouth before Geralt comes back to himself. His medallion is still against his chest, though he finds himself swearing that he can taste magic in the air. “Jaskier…” is all he can make himself say.

Jaskier sets his lute aside, his eyes glinting like sea glass in the candlelight. “Not so much a fillingless pie now, hmm?” he teases, and Geralt feels a stab of guilt in his gut. He hadn’t meant it then, but he’s not sure how to take the words back now. “It’s one of the last pieces of her I have, I suppose. That and the box.” 

The attachment makes sense now. Geralt thinks about a brooch tied to his sword hilt and decides that he won’t bother Jaskier about it again. He takes a quick bath and slides into the bed with Jaskier, and he spends the rest of the night sure that he catches wisps of the ocean in Jaskier’s hair.

\--

It isn’t until weeks after the mountain that he realizes that though Jaskier is gone, Geralt still has the driftwood box tucked away in the bottom of one of Roach’s saddlebags. Just seeing it makes Geralt’s stomach twist and he has to take a deep breath. He never thought he’d miss Jaskier as much as he does, wrong-footed without the other man at his side. The Path is lonely without his constant chatter and the sound of senseless tunes and little hums. What’s worse is that he knows he’s the only one to blame, unable to hold his tongue when his emotions overwhelmed him. Now, all that’s left of their friendship is the memory of Jaskier’s scent and the box that doesn’t belong to Geralt.

He sits by his fire and keeps stealing looks at the saddlebag, finding himself overrun with curiosity. Jaskier did promise he would show him one day, and he’s not here now… but that thought leaves a sour taste in Geralt’s mouth. Like Jaskier would trust him now, after he drove him away. But he remembers how jealously Jaskier guarded the box, the attachment he had to it. Fuck, Geralt thinks. He’s on his feet before he realizes and soon he’s holding the chest in his hands.

When he opens it, he’s surprised by what he finds inside. The box is unlined, and all that’s in it is a cloak or pelt of some kind. It’s slick against the leather of his gloves, draping across his fingers and nothing like he’s ever seen before. It smells faintly of the sea and like Jaskier’s skin, of wildflowers and sweet honey, but the scent is faded, like it hasn't been touched or worn in a long time. Despite that, it’s immaculately kept and the touch of it on his bare skin makes his medallion hum, just a little.

The long he looks at it, the harder it hits when the realization comes to him like a punch to the face. 

“A seal pelt…fuck,” Geralt says out loud as he sets it back into the box and slams the lid closed. The way Jaskier’s skin shines in under the light of a full moon, the faint salt-tang of his skin, and the way that he guards the box like it contained the richest treasure in the world, the pieces click into place and Geralt wonders how he didn’t figure it out before. _A selkie, Jaskier is a fucking selkie_ , he thinks to himself, and now the bard is out there somewhere without his skin. Geralt wracks his brain to remember what might happen if a selkie is without its skin for too long, but all that comes to mind is tales of men who steal the skins of sea maidens and keep them for wives. The idea of Jaskier slipping his skin back on and disappearing into the sea forever makes his stomach sink like a stone, but right now he doesn’t have that choice, not while Geralt has this box in his possession.

He has to find Jaskier. 

\--

As always, Geralt’s life is never his own. He finds his Child Surprise and Yennefer, bringing them both to Kaer Morhen. The driftwood box is never far from his mind or his hand, and he refuses to answer when both Ciri and Yennefer ask him about it. It’s none of their business and he doesn’t feel as guilty as he should, keeping this secret. 

When the spring thaws begin, Geralt sets out to find Jaskier at long last. Eskel and Lambert offered to help him, but ultimately it had been Yennefer that had given him the information he needed. While they didn’t fall into bed together like they used to, Geralt had found solace in her company when his thoughts and guilt had threatened to consume him. “He’s in Kerack, in case you’re curious,” she’d told him as she swept into the stable. She would keep Ciri with her, here at Kaer Morhen, and Geralt would walk the Path until he returned in the winter. Hopefully, with Jaskier in tow.

So, off he sets, making his way towards Kerack. He remembers the conversation the two of them had, where Jaskier had tried to console him, had offered something that Geralt didn’t understand then. _We could go to the coast, get away for awhile._ He should have said yes, should have stolen away from that nightmare of a hunt and done as the bard asked. As brash and demanding and selfish as Jaskier could be at times, he asked very little of Geralt when it actually meant something.

Now, he understands just what Jaskier was asking, and he swears he’ll do better next time.

\--

Once he reaches Kerack, Jaskier isn’t all that hard to find. Geralt rides Roach along the coastline until he spots him, his belly swooping when he sees Jaskier standing barefoot in the surf. He’s staring out at the sea, humming that same tune that sends Geralt right back to that night in the inn. He climbs down from Roach and carefully grabs the driftwood box from where he’s kept it safe in the saddlebags. Then, he’s not sure why, but he takes his boots off and leaves them next to where Roach is perched on the grass. 

The sand is warm beneath his bare feet and he doesn’t really like the way it feels between his toes, but for Jaskier, he can ignore it. He bristles when the cold water brushes against his skin, but it’s Jaskier’s voice that sends shivers down his spine. “Hello, Geralt.” 

“Jaskier…” is all he can make himself say. So many words well up in his mouth but they all feel wrong on his tongue, lodge in his throat until he clears it to force them loose. “I… I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

Jaskier turns to him and Geralt’s breath catches. His eyes are shining, a beautiful sea-glass blue that makes him look like the otherworldly creature he is, even trapped in his human skin. His skin is pale and there are shadows across his cheeks, but the smile on his face is achingly beautiful. “The world has been a strange place, I know. How did you find me?”

“Yennefer.” 

“Ah, of course.” Jaskier’s eyes shift, stormy at the mention of the sorceress. “I should have known. Well, why are you here?” 

Geralt holds up the box and watches Jaskier’s face shift through a myriad of expressions, settling on surprise. “You left this with me. I… wasn’t sure if you forgot it. I opened it and I--” he tries, but the words fail him. How does he tell Jaskier that thinking of him slipping the skin back on leaves him with a lump in his throat? That he knows it would be the edge of his anger and his carelessness that would rive Jaskier back into the sea? “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. The things I said, the way I acted, that I waited so long to bring this back to you. I...please.”

“Oh, dear heart, I know you are. I knew you regretted those words as soon as they left your mouth. I’m sorry too, you know. I was so busy trying to help you and fix something that wasn’t my place to fix, that I should have given you space. I’m not innocent either, and it took me a long time to realize that. But… Geralt, I didn’t forget it. I left it with you on purpose.”

“But--” 

Jaskier shushes him and takes the box. Geralt almost doesn’t want to let it go, afraid that he’ll watch Jaskier slip through his fingers again. “You’re not the only one who runs from their problems, Geralt. I knew that if I didn’t leave it with you, I would slip it back on and would disappear without ever seeing you again. It would have been the easy thing to do.” He brushes his fingers along the seam of the lid and flicks them against the brass lock keeping it closed. “My father stole my mother’s skin, not far from here. Everyone in Kerack grows up knowing the stories and he happened across it on the beach. After that, when I was born and she realized I was like her, she had this box built for me and told me to keep it safe. I was too young to understand, then, but as I grew older, I saw what it did to her. So I guarded it like a dragon with its hoard.” He glances up then, eyes shining like sunlight off the waves of a calm sea. “But you? I knew I could trust you. You didn’t steal it. I left it with you for safekeeping.”

Geralt feels his mouth go dry and his body moves before he can think, pulling Jaskier into a hug that leaves them both breathless. “I was afraid. I was afraid I’d bring it back and you’d...Jaskier, I can’t lose you.” He whispers the words into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, keeping them tucked between them like a secret. Maybe they’ll brand themselves into his skin and he can carry it with him as a reminder, both of them can. 

“I do need to return, it’s been too long and the call is great, but Geralt… I will always return to you, if you wish. The box is yours and I know you’ll guard it well. It’s my gift to you...because I love you. You’re the only one I would trust my pelt to.” 

“Thank you,” is all he can manage to say. Geralt still isn’t convinced that he’s worthy of trust of this magnitude, but he’s not going to say no. “I… do too, you know. Love you. That’s why I’m here.” 

Jaskier smiles and Geralt feels like he’s looking at a sunrise over the water. It leaves him breathless all over again. “Will you wait for me? I won’t be gone long.” At Geralt’s nod, Jaskier opens the box and pulls out the cloak. It glistens in the spring sun and Geralt’s fingers itch to touch it again, to run the slick softness over his fingers. Jaskier pulls it around himself and he starts to walk into the waves, lapping at him and pulling him under until he disappears beneath the surface. After a moment, Geralt watches his doublet and breeches wash onto the shore and he hears a splash.

Through the glint of the sun off the water, Geralt sees a seal pop its head up and glance at him before it disappears beneath the waves once more. He quietly gets to his feet and goes to gather Jaskier’s clothes before they can float away, laying them out onto the sand to dry in the sun. 

Meanwhile, he settles himself into the sand and begins to meditate, enjoying the smell of the sea in his nose and the sunshine on his back as it warms his armor. He can be a patient man when he wants, and Jaskier asked him to wait, so that’s what he’ll do.

He’ll wait forever, if he has to.

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Loved it? Let me know in the comments or over on Discord at #eyesofshinigami0707


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